


Love, Unwarranted, Unrealised

by orphan_account



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22564021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Hands sliding to grasp each other. Separating, meeting halfway across bodies. Fingers running along the plains of skin and touching curves, pressing and pressing until the pressure feels too right.Like it was always supposed to turn out this way. Like they were meant to just slide and rub at each other. Skin on skin, like this is what destiny fucking planned for them.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 71





	Love, Unwarranted, Unrealised

**Author's Note:**

> edited 03/03/2020!

Hands sliding to grasp each other. Separating, meeting halfway across bodies. Fingers running along the plains of skin and touching curves, pressing and _pressing_ until the pressure feels too right.

Like it was always supposed to turn out this way. Like they were meant to just slide and rub at each other. Skin on skin, like this is what _destiny_ fucking planned for them.

Tension. The air is so thick with it that it could be sliced by four swords and still remain untouched. There’s so much unsaid, so much they won’t talk about, so much the other would _grovel_ to hear, but neither say anything. They’ll rut and they’ll fuck and they’ll kiss with too much pressure, too much feeling, too much of _everything_ _._

They’ll slide against each other, listening for growls and whines to guide them in the pitch-black darkness that is _them_. Like falling into a cave and not caring about what’s at the bottom, the end that was coming closer with the sharp hiss of the wind against skin. They’ll _burn_ with desire, with lust, with love that they could never put to words.

Too much unsaid. When the white-haired one will look at the other man, he’ll feel pricks in his eyes because _this isn’t going to last._ _You’re going to leave, I’m going to leave, you’re going to die, I’m going to—_ and he’ll just fuck through the pain just to keep up his brutal pace. Their hearts are heavy, heavier than the musk of sex that fills the room, heavy with _why won’t he just fucking say something?_

When they finish and ruin the sheets, there will be no satisfaction. Like embers snuffed out in the middle of a freezing winter because the smoke and fire will attract things unwanted. It’s _necessary—_ they’ll repeat to themselves but never to each other—for them to stop doing this, because they won’t last, and this is just for tonight, and maybe they’re just that desperate for a fuck because it’s been ages since their last brothel—

No. When they finish, they’ll pant and breathe in each other’s scents, and it’ll too much. Their hearts will hurt, but they won’t know they hurt for the exact same reasons. When Geralt will get up, Jaskier will curl into himself for warmth and pain he can’t physically feel, listen to the silent footsteps against creaky wood walk almost _too_ far away from the bed, and think, _fuck, he’s leaving this early?_

Then Geralt will come back, but his nerves won’t settle. Like he didn’t just come twice in the same night—he won’t feel that soft, warm bliss after sex, no, he’ll feel empty, and he’ll feel squeezed and wrung out for _more_ , but there’ll be nothing else he can do. There’ll be nothing else he can offer. He will be empty, he will be hurting, _fuck,_ he’ll _hurt._

Geralt will feel like his world is coming down on him. He’ll think that what they did is the worst offence they could commit to each other, that their fucking would damage their relationship beyond repair. His ears will ring when he thinks about the next day, and he’ll try to promise himself that tomorrow, _tomorrow,_ he’ll leave and things will get better. Things _will_ get better, if only he just knew to stay away when he needed to.

“Water,” Jaskier will rasp, when he’ll be parched from all the babbling and yelling and _crying_ he’ll do. There will be a part in him that would be elated when a full cup appears in his hand seconds after he asks, only for that elation to be replaced by a sick, bitter feeling, slithering closer with pincers oozing poison. “Thank you,” He‘ll say when he drinks all of the water. The cup will get plucked out of his hand and placed on the nightstand nearby soon after.

Geralt won’t say anything. Can’t say anything. What the fuck is he supposed to say? _Thank you for the sex, I have to go because you can’t love me and I don’t want to get hurt first?_ He’ll think it was the heaviest, nastiest pile of cow shit he would ever have to say, because he _doesn’t_ want to go. He wants to stay, embrace his bard, kiss him without all of the heat and marking and crying. _Why the fuck does Jaskier cry when they have sex?_

“You can sleep next to me,” Jaskier will tell him, voice clear but shaky against the quiet of midnight. He won’t say _please, come sleep next to me_ because that’ll get him a grunt and a rejection that he can’t possibly even begin to handle rightly. He’ll leave the option open, and know that Geralt would only say yes because a come-and-sweat-soaked mattress was better than a cold hard floor.

“Okay,” Geralt will reply, and he’ll try to keep the heartbreak out of his voice. Fuck anyone who said Witchers didn’t have feelings, because if he didn’t have any, he wouldn’t be a few words away from crying just from the way Jaskier talks to him. He’ll feel and feel too much, and _gods_ he just wants to hold him and pretend what they have is _real._

But it won’t be. Not to Jaskier. He will lie down next to him, cool skin touching hot, but the bard will not be his to bring into his arms. He will not be his to hold and cherish and _love_.

And it won’t be. Not to Geralt. He will feel the broad, scarred back of the Witcher against his own unmarred one, feel Geralt’s heart beating slowly but not as slow as it usually was, but the witcher will not be his to soothe.

It won’t be real. This will be gone tomorrow, and there’ll be nothing they can do about it. Destiny is cruel, cruel enough to have them tied to each other but never tied _together_ , because Geralt belongs to Yen, and Jaskier belongs to his music. They belong to very different things, things that would never collide in the way they want, in the way they _need,_ because destiny is a cold, uncaring bitch.

They will never belong to each other. They will never be together. With heavy hearts and heavier sobs, they will understand.

**Author's Note:**

> i’m [theratofrivia](https://theratofrivia.tumblr.com/) and [itsamemicah](https://itsamemicah.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


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